G'day! Pull up a chair! Join me at the kitchen table for a chat...let's toss a few thoughts around about the state of this crazy but wonderful world we inhabit. There's lots to discuss! Make yourself comfortable! Would you like a glass of wine?

Monday, July 28, 2014

SWIMMING UP STREAM OR A FISH OUT OF WATER…OR BOTH….CHAPTER ONE

This is the townhouse I rented...on the corner of Clifton Beach Rd., and Arlington Esplanade, Clifton Beach. It wasn't painted white when I lived there. The sliding upstairs door led from the main bedroom onto the narrow deck...looking out to the beach and ocean across the road. Downstairs is the kitchen-living area. My unit was the one shown...on the right. There were/are only the two units in the block.

Upstairs and downstairs view from the above townhouse. Great spot!

Courtesy of Surf Lifesaving Australia...an aerial view of the main beach on Newry Island where the resort used to be.

Giant White-tailed Bush Rat (Placenta mammals)

The much smaller Marsupial Bush Rat

Pied Oystercatchers

Pushkin

Pushkin was an adorable cat. He came into my life as a wee kitten Nov. 1987, and he was in my life until November, 2002.

Although it was good in some ways to return to the mainland
after my time spent on Hinchinbrook
Island, on reflection, I
didn’t settle in completely to all aspects of mainland living. I missed the island and its carefree lifestyle. It took me a while to get used to having my feet
planted firmly on ground, not being surrounded by water on all sides. Life was so
much different to that on the island. However, I compensated by living as close
to the beach and ocean as I could.

Upon leaving Hinchinbrook for the tropical city of Cairns I rented a townhouse a few metres
around the corner from the beach at Yorkeys Knob, and then later another at Clifton Beach
in the Northern Beach
area of Cairns.

At Clifton
Beach, when living in the townhouse at
97 Arlington
Esplanade (pictured above), situated on the corner of Clifton
Beach Road and the Esplanade, the beach was only a few metres away, across
the road. I only had to take a couple of hops, steps and jumps and I'd land on the
beach. There I'd enjoy the sand between my toes before allowing the salt water to wash it
off at will.From my bedroom and from
the downstairs living area I had a clear vision of the ocean with only the palm
trees and a few other coastal trees to interrupt the view, in a nice way. Night after
night the sea gently lapping the beach was my lullaby; and each morning the
orange glow of the rising sun across the ocean my alarm clock.

But I was floundering, even though I wasn’t aware, not
consciously, anyway.However, somebody else
noticed.

When I was living on Hinchinbrook Island Jesse Peach operated the Dunk
Island barge that ran between Mission Beach
and Dunk Island.Often Jesse visited the resort on Hinchinbrook Island, which is about 53kms (33 miles) south of Mission Beach. By sea Dunk Island, which lies out front of Mission Beach is only 44kms (27 miles) from Hinchinbrook; and Dunk is only 10ms (6 miles) off shore from Mission Beach.

I’d gotten to know Jesse quite well from his frequent visits. He loved Hinchinbrook and he got to know all my staff, too. He was well-liked.

Coincidentally, when I was property
manager/receptionist/secretary/chief dog’s body and bottle washer at Inner
Circle Realty, Smithfield, on Cairns' Northern Beaches area Jesse and his lady owned and operated a fish and
chips shop in the same shopping centre at Smitherfield…just a couple of shops diagonally across and up from our office. Jesse had given up driving the barge, and he, too, had moved to the "big city" around the same time I had made my move.

The very astute Jesse paused for a chat one morning when our paths crossed at the centre's newsagency, which was situated opposite his shop, and a few metres/yards up from my place of employment.

“You don’t seem very happy, Lee.You’re not the same person you were on the
island,” Jesse declared, not holding back.

“It’s a whole different ball game, Jesse.Island living is completely different to
this.It was free - you know what it was like…we were free spirits...you know
what I mean…” I stammered, a little taken aback by his unexpected, direct observation.

“I know, but I sense you feel as if you’re boxed
in…trapped.You don't seem to be very happy. It's as if you’ve forgotten how to be…” He continued.

“Yeah…” I sighed in resignation.

A couple of weeks later, again early morning before the rest
of my co-workers appeared (I always arrived at work before everyone else) Jesse
burst through the doors (they were open) filled with excitement, eager to share
the information that was the reason for his visit.

That morning Jesse alerted me to Newry
Island; to the fact that Willi Litz,
the lessee of the resort on Newry
Island was desperately
searching for someone to take control of the reins.He needed someone to look after the small,
basic, down-to-earth resort for him because the previous manager had left Willi
in the lurch, and he was in dire straits. Jesse knew someone who knew someone
who told him about Willi Litz’ predicament; and Jesse immediately thought of
me!Of course, why not?The Lone Ranger to the rescue…

I'd never heard of Newry Island until then. I had no idea where it was, so a quick visit to the newsagency to grab a map soon put remedy to my ignorance.

In a way, I was the “Lone Ranger”…still am… nothing changes,
and nor would I want it to. I lived
alone with only my two cats, Pushkin and Rimsky as my “roomies”.I was tied to no one or nothing.I was beholden to no one. So with little
further ado, I did what I felt I had to do! What I wanted to do.

Newry
Island smiled back at me
in welcome the first time I laid eyes on “her”.As I approached Newry across the waters
between Rocky Island,
Acacia Island
and Outer Newry Island
my face spontaneously broke open in a wide smile; a smile I couldn’t
contain.I had no desire to contain
it.The feeling I experienced that
morning was one of pure joy. I felt as if I was
“coming home”.

After my arrival to the island Willi remained only long
enough to “show me the ropes”.Ten days
later I was on my Pat Malone (I was alone to those not familiar with Aussie
slang)…and loving it.A few weeks after setting foot on Newry my furry mates, Pushkin and Rimsky arrived, having endured a rather hairy trip by
four-wheel drive from Clifton Beach to Victor Creek,
with a blue heeler (cattle dog) to keep them amused.They weren’t the drivers of the vehicle, of
course; they were safely ensconced in a large cardboard box.In the same sturdy box they were transported across the ocean to me.Finally, we three were together again…and
very happy to be so. The Three Musketeers never celebrated a reunion the way we did!

I’ve written the above details or words to similar effect
previously, but I rekindled the description of my arrival on Newry Island
for some amongst you who may not have read my other posts about my time on the island. The
above prelude is to give the uninitiated a backdrop to my island background.

The times I spent on the island alone – alone other than
having Pushkin, Rimsky as my companions, and whatever native animals and birds with which
we shared the space - were perhaps my favourite times on the island. Living within the plentiful abundance of peace and tranquility, with only the sounds of Nature
as our accompaniment, there was nothing left to be desired.

Pushkin, Rimsky and I shared the island with koalas, echidnas, possums and the
white-tailed bush rats, along with bandicoots and, no doubt, numerous other
nocturnal creatures that I never set eyes on. The native residents who’d called
the island home long before my two furry rascals and I turned up welcomed us,
innately aware we wouldn’t harm them.

Each night the possums played on the sloping roof on the
left-hand side of my bedroom, raising an unholy row. I think they held football matches. They sounded more like a herd of elephants
than a passel or posse of possums.

The top
half of the stable door on the side bedroom wall leading out to the roof I left open
most of the time, weather permitting, of course. The existence of the stable
door leading to nowhere other than onto a pitched, corrugated-iron roof
mystified me.I never did discover its
purpose or why it was inserted when the building was originally constructed.

The first night Pushkin and Rimsky heard the possums running
around on the roof out from my bedroom , in tandem, they lept through the open
top half of the door to investigate the ruckus.Within seconds they returned, in surrender,
each with a “Whooooaaaaa!!” look on his face. They never ventured forth out onto
the roof again, not at night, anyway.

When on the island alone I switched the generator off early
evening rather than waste fuel unnecessarily.Once everything was shut down I’d go upstairs to my bedroom. I’d read
in bed for a while by candlelight, flashlight or, sometimes, by lantern glow. Mostly, I’d cherish the stillness, the quietness of the night, people-free.At those times, Pushkin and Rimsky made the most of their
freedom to move around downstairs in the bar and dining area uninterrupted by
humans; by annoying strangers with whom they weren’t keen to mingle.

The bar was of particular interest to
them.Once they knew I was securely nestled
in upstairs, I’m sure they shared a shot or two of Scotch. It was their “Happy
Hour”. A few times I did discover what they used to get up to down there.They’d made a few friends, and enjoyed
catching up with them when they had the chance.

Pushkin and Rimsky’s night time playmates were the native
giant white-tailed bush rats. The white-tails are nocturnal rodents. They play
an important role in the northern rainforest communities in the Wet Tropics
where they’re quite prolific. The first time I’d ever seen a giant
white-tailed bush rat was when I lived on Hinchinbrook Island.It’s been recorded that they originated from Papua New Guinea
about four million years ago. They grow to the size of a domestic cat or a
rabbit and can weigh up to a kilogram. The giant white-tailed bush rats are
placenta mammals different to the much smaller, daintier little marsupial bush
rat that frequent the coastal areas of Australia.The marsupial bush rats are much smaller than
their larger cousins, weighing in at around a mere 160 grams (about 5 ounces).
The white-tailed bush rats have formidable teeth and are able to cause damage
to all sorts of materials, including PVC piping, leather, tin, canvas – you
name it, and they’ll chew through it.They’ve been known to bite through cans.If you see a coconut on the beach with a hole in it, drained of its
juice, nine and a half times out of ten the hole was caused by a
white-tail biting through the coconut to get to the juice.However, they’re not
dangerous to humans…and it became obvious to me when living on Newry Island,
they weren’t a threat to cats, either; or vice versa.

Whenever I went downstairs to check the progress of their
party I’d discover my two furry mates nonchalantly sitting on the bar, their
mates, the white-tailed bush rats, scampering around on the floor in front of
them. My two cats didn't twitch a whisker; nor did they offer me a drink!

I constantly berated Pushkin and
Rimsky about their failure as cats; about it being their job to keep guard
against nocturnal visitors and to chase their feral mates away, but to no
avail.With a yawn and eyes cocked, they
just poo-hooed my suggestions. Their friends were their friends, and no one, not even I could tear them asunder. Their loyalty knew no boundaries.

Because of that unfailing friendship there must have been an unspoken pact or truce; or
one I was unable to translate or understand because the white-tailed bush rats
never seemed to cause any damage to the buildings, pipes, etc; not any I could see. Perhaps the
buildings were so old, it was impossible to notice any damage!There was nothing I could do to keep them in
check, even if I wanted to do so.I never locked any doors, windows, or anything else on the island. There were no locks, no keys. I had no
need to lock anything up or away. Living on the island I felt no threat from any living
creature, including those of the two-legged human kind. Only once was there a threat from a human…and
that was from me towards a fellow human, but more about that in Chapter Two.

At Stewart’s mention of the oystercatchers I was reminded of
the Pied Oystercatchers that used to frequent the main beach in front of the
resort on Newry Island. I loved watching them stroll
along the beach.Their
not-a-care-in-the-world attitude was contagious. They weren't wary of me, mostly they ignored me as they enjoyed their day. Rarely did they fly away if I drew near. There was enough room on the island for them and for me. So often I stopped whatever I
was doing to leisurely watch them while they went about their own business. They were always in pairs. They were never very far apart from each
other. Amused, I’d watch them as they splashed about in the shallow pools
of water left behind from an ebbing tide.

Obviously, there were a few pairs rather than just the one
pair, but as they all looked alike to me, it was difficult to my untrained eye
to know which was which, who was who, or how many there were unless they all
congregated together at the same time.

I loved watching their antics when they bathed in a water pool oblivious to all else. I’d sit quietly
watching as one bird attended to its ablutions. After a few minutes of sole bathing
the bird would look along the beach towards where its mate wandered about a few
metres away, either in search of something tasty to nibble on, or it had chosen to take a
casual stroll with no purposeful intention as it pondered the world through
the eyes of an oystercatcher.

Spotting his mate, the bathing
bird would call out to it, beckoning the other bird to join him; and then, the
two of them together would frolic freely.Not
wanting to disturb their fun, I didn’t have the heart to move until after they’d
completed their gratifying pleasure.Watching their daily ritual was a gratifying pleasure for me, too,

Witnessing the joyful antics of the oystercatchers was just one
of the many things I loved about being on the island alone with only Pushkin
and Rimsky for company...along with our co-inhabitants, the wonderful native
creatures.

One afternoon I went for a stroll up along the beach towards
the northern point when I noticed, a few metres up ahead, a tern was acting in a
very distressed manner.It was crying
out in a mournful, yet frantic wail while flapping it wings and moving around
in a most agitated way.As I drew closer
I noticed its mate was lying motionless on the beach in front of it. The surviving tern was in
such a state.I crouched down on my
heels onto the sand. What I saw upset me very much.Tears flowed freely down my face.There was nothing I could do, so I backed
away slowly, sobs racking my body. The bird’s anguish was palpable. Whether I
was right or not, I believed the bird had to grieve in its own way. I didn’t
feel it was my place to disturb the scene at that time, so I let it be.The following morning I returned to the site
and buried the dead bird, above the high water mark.

I will never
forget the incident; and I know some may think I’m silly -but I don't care - to this day, about 24 years later, it still upsets me when I think
about that afternoon.

I'm one of the biggest softies in the world ("sooks" as we're are referred to in Aussie slang)... but, on the other hand, I don't suffer fools easily - or at all, as a matter of fact.

33 comments:

How lovely that Jesse knew you well and was concerned enough to enable you to 'go home'. Somewhere where you could breathe again.And, as a fellow sook, my eyes leaked at the death of the tern. Animals feel attachment - of that I have not the slightest doubt.

Newry Island is north-east of Mackay, Carol...it's north of Seaforth...and Seaforth is 44kms north of Mackay.

The island is only 5kms from the boat ramp at Victor Creek...and Victor Creek is just a couple of kilometres from Seaforth. The boat trip from the ramp to the island took about 20 minutes depending on conditions.

Not happy on the Aussie Mainland, yet Australia is also an island; it seems you are a "small island" girl at heart, which makes me glad Jesse noticed and thought of you when Newbry needed someone. I wouldn't mind living on an island as long as there was internet, but I don't think I could handle teams of possums playing footy on the roof every night.

Hi Lynn...Pushkin certainly was a lovely cat. He was very special to me...and me, to him. He was so very loyal and so very affectionate. My heart was broken when I lost him...and I still tear up when I think of him leaving my life.

I must be a "sook" too, and I think the whole world should be as well.What a beautiful part of the world, your photos are wonderful.My sister lived there or near there years ago and I remember that she said that you pronounced "Cairns" like tin "cans"...is that correct?

Oh, they made friends with everything, RK...except the humans! They weren't too keen on forging friendships with them! lol They only time they were half pleasant was when I was cooking up the seafood barbecues at night...then they'd sit off to the side away from everyone, waiting for their share.

My cats, including Remy & Shama, my furry rascals who keep me company these days, have never been interested in hunting etc. They're on a good thing living with me, why exert themselves catching their own food.

Thanks for letting us see inside of your love of that time. I think it truly shows in your descriptions of each event. I love the scene you painted in words of the cats sitting on the bar and watching their friends at play. This post made me feel as though I was standing along side of you as you moved to a happy place. Bless Jesse heart. Peace

Your cats sound like ours. One time we noticed traces of a mouse in the house so we actively tried to trap it. One day, the mouse scurried across the kitchen floor right in front of our cats who couldn't be bothered to get up from their naps. They just watched it go.

Hey there Dexter...I half expect these two of mine to jump into the car one day and head off to the supermarket to buy their meat and canned food; but then...why would they bother, when they have me to do it for them? ;)

Pushkin was a wonderful cat. He was so loyal to me. He worshiped me and I, him. It broke my heart when I came home from work one night and found him dead, here in my cabin. It brings tears to my eyes writing about it. He was very special.

Thanks for coming by...great to see you, as it always is. I hope all is going well with you. :)